


Ariadne lost

by protisvit



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Feanor did not inherit his pride and hunger for knowledge from his father, Finwean Ladies Week, Gen, Introspection, Míriel did not just fade away for lack of strength, Prophetic Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26841145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protisvit/pseuds/protisvit
Summary: It is commonly believed that Míriel Þerinde faded of exhaustion in spirit and body.There are those that disagree, and claim she saw a vision of her son's fey deeds in his newborn eyes and escaped to the Halls in grief.None of this is quite true, for nothing is ever quite as simple. Least of all the Broideress.(Written for Finwean Ladies Week 2020)
Relationships: Finwë/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	Ariadne lost

Míriel is cold when she awakes.

This is not new to her, the cold has been her most constant companion ever since the day she gave birth. It is a chill not comparable to the dark nights at Cuiviénen, when they huddled together around the cooking fires, that were big enough to give off a little additional warmth, but not as large as to attract any unwanted attention. It did not bother her much then. The Firstborn are a hardy folk, not easily cowed by the elements and she had always been too busy in mind and body to let herself dwell on the bite in the air.

But now, as she spends most of her time underneath soft blankets, she can’t seem to rid herself of the frost that seems to dwell in her very bones, seeping out to the surface until her finger are numb and her skin as pale and cold as ice.

She needs to rest, the healers and her husband had agreed, and so Míriel had sat against soft cushions and taken to her craft.

But the images her unfeeling fingers had produced had lain flat and dead, and she had burned them in the fireplace for additional warmth every night, after sending her husband away.

Some moments of quiet pass before she finally opens her eyes, only to very nearly closes them again as the light of Laurelin assaults her senses.Not for the first time her spirit calls out for the soothing twilight of days long passed.

Her husband sits in front of the open window, cradling a tiny bundle in his arms, as he is bathed in the same golden light that made her avert her eyes only moments ago. It suits him, she thinks, like the shimmering silver stars had suited her once.

Finwë raises from his armchair, slowly, as to not disturb the sleeping babe and comes to sit at her bedside. His smile is just as bright and much warmer than the Trees’ light, but it does not quite reach the frozen wasteland that Míriel’s bones have become. Only when he places her son in her arms, she feels heat seep through her, her grip tightening instinctively as if trying to press some of that radiant warmth back into her own chest. 

“He is beautiful,” the High King says and she cannot help but agree.

Her son’s infantine features already herald the fine lines that will one day carry eager grace and his smooth, pale skin stands in striking contrast to the tuft of dark hair covering his head. She runs her fingers through the soft strands, absentmindedly drawing lines and small patterns between them. He smacks his lips at her touch, and when she wanders down to his red cheeks he turns his parted lips towards her, as if searching for the source of the caress.

Her husband chuckles gently. She can feel the vibrations in his chest, so close is he sitting next to her and when she steals a glance at him, the devotion in his eyes make her own chest tighten.

When she peers back down, the babe is sleepily opening his eyes. And Míriel _sees._

Many years later, some scholars will claim that Miriel Þerinde looked into her son’s eyes and saw the pain the child in her arms would inflict, the blood those tiny hands would spill and the cursed words the rosy lips would utter, and that it was the grief over this that drove her to the Halls.

They are only partly right. 

Míriel sees radiant gems drenched in blood and sees the darkness in the pure light of their making.She feels the scorching heat of flames, blazing in the dark and engulfing a fleet of great white swans, before becoming all-compassing, consuming even the memory of her icy bones. Smoke hangs heavily in the air, mated with the smell of burning wood and molten flesh. Screams fill her ears. Shrill screams of fear and hoarse screams of pain, and the choked cries of grief in a cacophony of suffering that spans centuries.

All ringing in answer to her son’s ireful voice and the seven fold chorus echoing it.

But here is what the scholars do not discern:

The fëa of Míriel Þerinde, High Queen of the Noldor is as faceted as her most perplexing tapestries and as sturdy as her own woven cloth. Grief for her, is much too simple an emotion to bring her to her knees.

When she gazes into her son’s eyes that day, destruction is not the first thing she sees. That honour, as always, is reserved for beauty and the first thing she feels in her son’s fëa, is love.

The same devoted love she has seen in her husband’s eyes moments ago and the same love for knowledge, she has felt in her own chest every day of her life. The eternal chase for perfection, to understand and create, better and faster and more daring than anyone before or after.

And springing from it, she sees seven more smiles, seven more voices raised in laughter, a pride of her house.

And Þerinde thinks she has never made anything more beautiful.

But she does not understand.

Here is what Míriel knows: She has given her son as much of her spirit as she could, more than anyone before her. Her perfect child, who will be a work of art worthy of her skill and her husband’s love. The mightiest in soul and body of all the Eldar. He will create wondrous things that will last into Ages unknown and his sons will be unfailingly loyal and gifted in their own skill, to the praise of their people.

Here is what she also knows: Years later, their names will be cursed in every corner of Beleriand and beyond.

Míriel does not rise these following days. The High King worries, lingering at his wife’s side as often as his duties will allow, but she hardly notices him. All of her energy is focused on a simple question, one word, that she used to cherish and that now torments her every moment. _How?_

She has spied fragments, lone threads in the tapestry of the future, but she cannot piece them together. Everything is tangled up, the path kept hidden from her and she needs to see further if she wants to unravel it, if she wants to find the weak spot, the wrong turn.

Deep down she knows there is a simple way to try and prevent everything she has seen. Every coil begins with one strand and this one lies trustingly in her arms. As simple as pulling out a mismatched thread, she can feel the movement under the tips of her nimble fingers. A quick snap, a gentle push is all it would take.

But that would mean calling the child in her arms, _her masterpiece,_ a mistake.

Þerinde, the Broideress, High Queen of the Noldor, does not make mistakes.

She is called the greatest weaver because every stitch she places has a role to play. Every thread she secures, leads the viewer further through the story, sometimes on bold tracks of vivid colour and sometimes on trails so fine and profound, they remain hidden until the second glance.

But never before have they been hidden from herself.

(And perhaps there is something else. A secret she has never told anyone and that must never be revealed. And that is, that Míriel Þerinde is selfish. She has seen great beauty and she has seen even greater pain and still she would not part with the former to prevent the latter. )

She has created and will not judge. She does not know how to mend what she has seen and she does not even know if she has truly erred.

For the first, and most important time, Míriel does not _know_.

(Later, much later, when she weaves her family’s deeds from the only place that will show her _everything_ , she still tries to understand. There, in those soothing grey Halls, she picks each thread, choses each colour, mulls over every texture as if asking ‘Why?’.

Why did you chose to leave? Why did you chose to stay? What drove you to your deed and what came of it? _How do you fit in this picture?_

She weaves tapestries as intricate and complicated as fate itself. She weaves because to create, one has to understand. And she _needs_ to understand.

Þerinde cannot live without knowing.)

Míriel loves the small child she hardly knows and the grandchildren she never will, and asks “How?”. She should not be able to love them, after everything she has seen.

A part of her knows that this is a question she will never find the answer to, and another part knows she will never stop asking. _He will know,_ she thinks, contemplating the babe in her arms. He will be smarter than all of them and if she stays he will see right through her.

A mother’s love should not be a question.

For the first time in many days, Míriel rises and steps outside.

And if that is to be the first step that sets this self-fulfilling prophecy into motion, let her be forgiven. 

If it will be in the name of Míriel _jewel-daughter,_ that her son will create the most beautiful gemstones of all, to replace a mother’s light he was never allowed to behold, let her be forgiven.

And if for her, he will not part with these gems for the sake of the same Valar that are already in possession of the greatest jewel of all, let her be forgiven.

Let her be forgiven, because she does not _know._

Míriel steps outside and steps away.Her child wails.

**Author's Note:**

> (So it seems that Míriel was weaving the tapestries after she left Mandos, not during her time there, but I will just very elegantly ignore that.)
> 
> It is canonical that Feanor inherited his stubbornness from his mother, so in my mind that is also true for the perfectionism and the innate need to understand everything, no matter the cost or moral consequence. 
> 
> I should also say that this was in parts inspired by azarias' "Eve or Arachne", a brilliant work that I think about at least once a week.


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